Tarnished
by DancingAtDiscos
Summary: She was golden, now she is tarnished. All that glitters after all.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is very different to any story I have previously written. This will potentially be a multi-chapter piece, based solely on response and inspiration to continue. The pairing is not completely decided yet but will be AU...to an extent. This is not a pairing I have ever explored before, but I really love them. **

**Enjoy! :)**

Alcoholic, Drug Addict, Train wreck. All words that would nay should be used to describe her and yet are not.

On the Upper East Side secrets, no matter how dark and disturbing were hidden away in Prada packed closets, or flushed down porcelain bowls, with that mornings low fat muffin and skimmed latte. Alcoholism was laughed off as "a few too many" and drug problems were nasty little secrets that could only be detected on those too inexperienced or wasted to wipe the powder from their nostrils.

Only poor people could be placed under these entirely unpleasant categories. Golden girls such as Serena van der Woodsen were just being typical teenagers, if they knocked back too many dirty martinis on a school night; were merely experimenting, if they snorted a cheeky line, in a cramped cubicle to take the edge off an unforgivably dull evening. After all, no one liked a party that didn't contain a certain pizzazz.

This was the attitude adopted by most Upper East Side princesses and their laughably, stereotypical, soulless mothers. Serena had been right there with them all but a week ago, now though, waking up for the fourth morning in a row, staring at a ceiling she had never seen in her life, she realised that perhaps this kind of lifestyle wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

The body beside her was snoring relentlessly, and she couldn't get further from it on the king sized bed if she tried. Slipping out from under the green silk sheets, she tried not to dwell on the fact that all she was wearing was a ridiculously short, tight white skirt. The purple, ruffled thong she could vaguely remember slipping on the night before, now dangling precariously from a lampshade on the other side of the spacious room.

She felt sick. Violently, dangerously, worryingly ill. She wanted to bolt, grab her no doubt, slutty outfit and fly out the room that was, gradually getting smaller and smaller in her still alcohol addled mind. With the single thought _"get the fuck out"_ swirling through her conscience, Serena gave up the futile search for her outfit from the previous evening, grabbed a men's white dress shirt to conceal her bare upper half, abandoned any attempt to retrieve her favourite Gucci pumps, and fled.

Once panting and retching on the sidewalk in her mismatched fashion faux pas, she attempted to hail a cab. Luckily, attracting attention had never been a problem for Serena, with her statuesque figure, and her glistening golden hair she didn't exactly have to beg to be centre stage in life. True to form, within minutes of standing helplessly on the sidewalk, a yellow cab - a little too bright for her hung-over taste pulled up right in front of her. _Some things never change, _she mused as she settled against the sticky leather seats. She wasn't commenting on the promptness of the taxi. This conclusion was drawn as she caught the driver give her a discreet pitying look in his mirror and the ever familiar sensation of self loathing tears burned her blue, blue eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Again."

The deep voice sneered at her as she sashayed (staggered) into the far too familiar room. She knew what she was doing was wrong. She wasn't stupid (in all aspects of life). She didn't think for one moment that this was anything other than poisonous. She wished, begged, pleaded, occasionally prayed that she could muster a little self preservation. Alas, to no avail.

When she regained equilibrium (clinging pitifully to the ledge of the wet bar) she swung around, perilously close to snapping her ankle on the ridiculously high heels she insisted on enduring, and located where the statement (accusation) had come from.

_Go_ the voice in her head pleaded. _Just go, he won't stop you. You're not _her_ after all. Do it now, before it happens again. _She wanted to listen, god how she wanted to. But memories prevented her from doing so. Searing memories, that burned, ached, clawed at her common sense until it was futile to stop her. Until it surrendered. Until it stopped even trying.

Memories of hands (everywhere and then nowhere). Whispered words (broken promises). Euphoric, mind altering pleasure (Guilt, crippling guilt).

"This isn't a rehabilitation centre, Van der Woodsen. Any reason why you're here?"

She waited for the voice to cut in, to make her decision for her, the way it did for everyone else. The voice that stopped people from fucking up their lives. Where was hers? On vacation? Did she have some kind of defect? There had to be a reason. A reason that explained why she was standing here, at 8:15 am, knowing full well what she was about to do and still not getting the hell out.

He looked relatively collected. "Where's Blair?" deflect the question with another, a stellar tactic.

He avoided her eyes, a perfect answer. Serena knew she had been there, in the suite, in his bed. A pair of her best friends shoes were sitting neatly by an armchair and her lipstick mark (blood red) was visible on a nearby martini glass (not even halfway drank). Nate must have called breaking up their rendezvous (mistake, filthy, evil mistake to her. Everything to him) Serena swallowed her dignity down by draining the alcohol, in the glass branded by her best friend. (Remove all evidence.)

"You," He looked up, caught her eye, confused.

"I'm here," she moved closer, dangerously nearer to the flames, "because of you."

When her lips melded with his, without resistance and he began to unbutton her comically, oversized shirt, Serena thanked whoever was responsible for keeping the voice quiet. So she was about to fuck her (step brother, best friends lover (love?)) again. What was one more delicious fuck (up) in the grand scheme of things?


End file.
